


Sinful Balancing

by SoftAziraphale



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BDSM, Consensual Non-Consent, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Rope Bondage, Spanking, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22907311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoftAziraphale/pseuds/SoftAziraphale
Summary: 「 Mortal bodies carry with them faults and needs, and Crowley knows it. He has always known this since original sin. For Aziraphale ...Maybe doing miracles is not enough. It doesn’t matter what the big plan says. 」An almost alternative universe that fits between the meetings of Aziraphale and Crowley through the epochs...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 14





	Sinful Balancing

**Author's Note:**

> 「I’d like to thank REALLY THANK ❤ @ailajoell nothing 'd be possible without her patient correction of my awkward english beta Chapter! This is only a starting point where i try to set a different point of view. 」
> 
> Comment and feedback are my fuel ><" and helps me keep going on writing.

The room was tall, about 5 meters high, and enough space to take your breath away. Grand arches made of white stucco cascaded from a finely painted domed ceiling, probably from a generation before Lorenzo de Caro. It was a post-700 fresco, teeming with supernatural creatures, chimeras, tiny dragons and angels wielding swords in an act of purification. Cruel, definitely, almost too cruel, but it was a characteristic of Christianity...

The violence was brought to life by the foils of gold and the divine creatures’ ephebic forms, rosy skin, toned muscles and glittering blades covered in cursed blood. Diabolical.

Just below this crowded paint, there was a baldachin bed made of four twisted but slender columns of light walnut wood, suspended curtains of pure linen, and framed by elegant drapes. These came down in fringes drawing the entire curve of the bed, thus making it difficult to distinguish the entirety of the figure asleep from afar.

Or maybe... once asleep.

Aziraphale has lived there for a few months. He stuck around Italy and was travelling through Europe only to taste the sweet delicacies each country had to offer, especially in France, unaware of the geopolitical situation of that epoque. Although the Bible preached the mortification of the flesh, he really could NOT be further from that condition. He was the perfect portrait of a diaphanous, fair and healthy, with rosy lips, a rounded belly, and wearing ornate Italian tailored clothes.

He was lingering at the casket desk. The night had fallen a while before when he retired to his room without showing any hurry or intention to wash his face from the ceramic bowl full of icy water.  
His face was illuminated by the warm tone of the oil candle’s light. He was reading a letter, stolen from the servants, which testified the presence of a rare manuscript by Carlo Gozzi, an Italian priest.

Collecting books was a habit of Aziraphale’s that was considered a true perversion. While he was reading the secret coordinates of that volume inside the house, his hands started trembling out of excitement, making the yellowed, filthy sheet of paper vibrate.

The angel sighed and bit his lower lip, looking sordidly around, then hurriedly slipped the letter into a secret compartment of the little volume on the left.

A loud noise came from outside the large bedroom window overlooking the courtyard, like many houses in northern Italy. The angel was jolted by an icy shiver down his back afraid of being discovered, that he would be robbed, or worse. A bishop had intuited his selfish aims, and wanted to prevent his presence depriving the local clergy of that rare book.  
  
He swallowed and glanced around the room, and his eyes stopped on the window. The brocaded curtains were open, just barely, as the moonlight obscured his vision of the stone balcony. He shifted... an insecure step. Then another. The white lacquered shoes made a light noise on the floor. There were embellishments on his Victorian clothes and his britches weren’t stretchy at all like the current ones, but narrow and bandaging up to the waist.

The flush on his cheeks faded away and he grew pallid, and he began to sweat out of fear. There was a deafening noise and the window swung open as white sheets of paper flew away. Aziraphale barely had a chance to blink and focus, then cried out:

 _“For the heaven’s sake Crowley!”_  
with a delicate tone, relieved.  
The demon appeared in a noisy and theatrical way with noise and wind that carried the smell of African spices. The moonlight almost made a sanctifying halo on Crowley’s red messy hair. Victorian fashion wanted the long hair to be gathered by a black velvet ribbon, but he used it to secure the shirt around his neck. The demon stepped inside, and looking around annoyed, murmured.

 **"I say... where are you living... a holy place? A cloister? I could burn myself touching the doorknob. Are you aware of that?"** he asked the angel.  
Repositioning the black lenses on his nose bridge, futuristic for the ancient era, he straightened out his hair and saw the angel hurriedly running to close the open door of the French window, adjusting the curtains, and tugging them with such eagerness that the brass rings slammed.

 _“Good evening sir…”_  
He kindly smiled, softened by the presence of the demon.

 _"Have you... lost your mind? You came here... and so close to a cathedral that you could have been discorporated... burn at least your body and soul!"_  
The angel reproached him with apprehension; however, the serpent settled in the middle of the bedroom, frowning, looking around without appreciating the angelic furnishings. Surely he must have found it of dubious taste.   
Crowley slender body was wrapped in a long double-breasted black velvet jacket. It reached halfway up the thigh revealing little of its shape, but it had the advantage of revealing those few inches necessary to make him appear imperious. The tight lips and the aquiline nose were the perfect protagonists of a face full of starvation for more than a millennium.

 **"Well, I was smart enough not to cross the church border. And again, shrewd enough not to dress in a cicisbeo suit and start a trip, alone, just to look for a book in this time of war. You should at least wear a cassock... but look at you…”**  
He kept his hands together behind his back. Was he grooming him?  
So it seemed... but lovingly.   
In fact, one corner of his mouth raised up underlining a caressing tone, making the harsh words really more bearable.

 _"A cassock... but I've kept these clothes for almost a century."_ he complained.

 **"and are outdated,"** replied Crowley.

 **“not so.. humble or Christian looking."**  
He added, thinking about how much this actually clashed with what God preached...

 **"...or at least I think so. Is that right?"**  
Crowley corrected his inappropriate remark, and started to walk towards the angel, then to the door just to be sure that the door was locked, so that no one, not even a bored passer-by, would notice the unexpected guest.

 _“Is that so…”_  
Nodding, the man dressed in white pondered the concept, and started caressing his draped linen shirt, then over his jacket distractedly. There were more layers underlining the curve of his back. His hands were sweaty and he was timidly looking down... perplexed. Yes, definitely. That bearded face was distorted by a contrite frown, reflecting on the role of his behavior, on the actual sanctity of his being. Perhaps, it wasn't so holy to indulge in so many pleasures. He had nothing but misery and pain around him in war times. A couple of miracles couldn’t fix the war’s devastation.  
  
While the angel was analyzing the tiles of the clean floor, Crowley advanced and stood in front of him, a palm of distance still between Aziraphale's back and the door.  
**"Are you reconsidering the goodness of the Creator's great plan?"**  
Asked the tempting demon... establishing doubt in this case. In fact, his job wasn't just to create annoyance. The objective was elsewhere.

 _“Don't be blasphemous in front of me, Crowley."_  
Aziraphale was triggered, but was scared to see him so near. Crowley grew closer, regardless, as the words caressed him only inches from his face with a raspy tone. A whisper that gave a heavy cruel hit to the foundation of the angel’s unshakable faith. 

**“And then what do you think? … Maybe you should take that book away. Take to the street and heal the miserable … provide food and shelter for families, for mothers who don’t know what to put on the kitchen table.”**  
Crowley was far too lighthearted on painting a picture of misery. He'd seen poverty firsthand and it wasn't ‘his own doing’. It was the fault of men. He had only crawled over... he had hissed in holy ears and made them steal, kill and sin. To desire and not to give. And in the end of this tour he ended up at the door of the only angel who inhabited the earth with him since the time of creation.

 **“I’m just sharing with you my concerns…”**  
hissed the ginger man.  
But the angel was so shaken by that doubt that it stung his brain that he went pale. Petrified with grainy eyes he looked at his friend's hands in front of him and became speechless. His mouth, dry with anxiety, gaped for a momentary, short sentence.

 _"...I don't think I'm allowed to interfere as much. I'm not supposed to perform dozens of miracles... I didn’t receive such orders."_  
He explained. Maybe he was only justifying himself.   
Crestfallen, he stepped back, his ears rang for a moment. The door supported him from falling, the lightheadedness overwhelmed him as he swooned, he had never fainted before.

 **“Angel…”**  
Crowley kept his attention on him as he stretched out an intrusive hand to touch the angel's chin, his lower lip had a vulnerable quiver.

 **" ...that's called guilt. Men feel this sensation from original sin. You just never felt it before.”**  
The cherub, in fact, was analyzing this new sensation and rationalizing the fear as a pain squeezed his stomach. 

_“I must do something.. “_ He admitted.   
Meanwhile the demon was looking for a way to escape through the cracks of his insecurity. He took off his black eyeglasses that styled him and hid his vibrant irises, colored in a bright and unnatural yellow.

 **"Hell is a place where blame is our foundation. That’s not my task among the damned down there... but I hate to admit that I know countless ways to make you feel purified from guilt... without crossing the threshold of my dominion".**  
It was a witty suggestion, and seemed almost a contrite sacrifice for Crowley, who (while loving his friend immensely) was moved by ambiguous intentions. He didn't want him to suffer, but it was obvious that his personal ways of seeking a solution were significantly different from what the angel would consider reasonable even if they ended up achieving the same end result: a good purpose.

 _“Crowley, are you suggesting to use the priest's cilices ?"_  
He asked puzzled. 

The angel was so tense that his hands trembled again. Not out of anger, on the contrary, they were as cold and sweaty as his frightened soul. 

**"If you'll trust me, I'll show you what I mean... there's no need to bleed to… suffer. The clergy can be really sick sometimes..”**  
Crowley hissed with a grimace of disgust, the church gave him hives.  
Soon a silence fell and the demon moved sideways and fanned his arm to show the angel the center of the room. There was a rather precious carpet laying on the floor. The angel moved away from the wooden door, walking towards the direction shown by his friend. Aziraphale was confused from indulging the demon’s behavior, and anguished thoughts swam in his head.   
The demon followed his footsteps, looking at his stiffened shoulders, on which he placed his palm. Under his touch, he felt the angel stiffen, caused by the unexpected contact. He then approached him and whispered in his ear...  
Warm.. slow  
Reassuring.  
**“Would you want to relax, Angel?… I know you do. Because I haven't felt any real relief since I fell…ages ago. But you can... you want to feel. That’s not only your job, but your nature…**

**Now... take off your jacket, please. I wouldn’t want to ruin it…”**

  
Leaving traces of whisper in angel’s lobe, Crowley’s hands grazed down. Aziraphale had a violent thrill, not realizing what was happening. What was this unknown sensation? ‘Pleasure’, for him, came mostly from contemplation of the divine creation, or by reading a good old book… and eating food. However, the demon had just laid the foundations of arousal in the Angel’s mind.

The cherub curled his lips and looked at Crowley with admiration while he turned around to face him. The fingers were unbuttoning the jacket slowly and patiently, like in a ritual gesture… Crowley was looking at him more imperiously than ever. Buttonhole after buttonhole the damask golden waistcoat was revealing the true shape of angels body as the shirt fall down on his arms delicately. Needless to say, the man in black was dominating the situation, as Crowley was aching for contact. He controlled his breathing as he admired the angel before him.   
The desire was carving like a scratching claw in his mind, torturing him, instead of Aziraphale.

 **“Niccce…”** he lightly hissed,   
_“Crowley i don’t really know how all of this could hel-“_

Crowley interrupted him sharply.  
**“I never said you were allowed to speak”**

Yet he said it in a soft and firm tone. Severe like a teacher... Crowley had managed for a moment to intimidate his friend, forbidding him to speak. Aziraphale lowered his eyes, confused. The demon in dark velvet clothes offered his hand and loosened capriciously a pair of buttons on angel’s collar, depriving him of the lace lapel, or jabot, and threw it on the canopy bed behind them. The dim light of the oil lamp barely distinguished their shapes… but for Crowley it was enough to enjoy the view of Aziraphale’s angelic fragility.

**“Could you… kindly take the waistcoat off..? It’s a bedroom… isn’t it? it’s not an appropriate piece of clothing…”**

Aziraphale was about to answer something, but the words never left him, and he was silent… He was totally entranced by the demon’s voice, and in some way, trustful. He did not fully understand what was happening, but was only observing his heart beating, quickening and pumping blood urgently, although he was desperately trying to slow it down. Obeying, that strange pleasant sensation grew, he was heaven’s soldier, maybe he was made to obey…  
Aziraphale’s hands, decorated only by a pair of golden bandeau rings, started unbuttoning the waistcoat, leaving himself only with the open shirt. Crowley was imagining smoothing down the pure cotton of that white shirt over his deceptively lean frame which was now almost visible.  
His fair skin was hairless on his chest and nipples, and the cold of the room made them inexorably turgescent. Maybe.   
Crowley took a half step closer to him, just to caress his flushed cheek with the back of the fingers. Aziraphale felt so ashamed for his condition, that he shyed away from the contact immediately, scared and surprised at the same time. It wasn’t natural for him to get naked, let alone touched. In this situation, the clothes difference was underlining that new strange relationship of dominance. Aziraphale stared at the floor, insecure, he didn’t know where to look, the mirror on the desk reflected their figures and the image and the silence stunned him.

**“… Don’t avoid me. Please…”**

Aziraphale had contracted his muscles in the effort not to react. Looking into Crowley’s eyes, he silently blamed him for his impudence and excessive intimacy. He kept the frozen fingers clenched, his head slightly bent, the angel was shaking , and not only because of the cold, but it was difficult for him to remain silent and obedient while Crowley was trying to wrangle is mind and body into a pleasant despicable direction.  
The demon tried again, brushing his neck, and then to angel’s shoulders… From there he caressed his chest where the palm stopped, he could feel the violent heart beat.  
Yet they were so calm and silent... the tension was lying elsewhere. For Crowley, under his belt, his human body already began to react. His mind was flying with a rhythm that made his veins throb..   
The caresses grew more enticing, as Crowley separated his fingers. The tendons were visible under his olive skin. Well kept hands, indeed, but still very masculine, craving to own as much as possible. He then tried to stir a reaction in the angel, almost unintentionally, by grazing his nipples, again and again, entranced by their progressive change through the light fabric to test the reaction of the Aziraphale’s body.   
“…” The submissive man sighed, he clenched jaw, and swallowed a feeling that was like an unknown, warm, and fuzzy rush running down over his groin. Aziraphale just couldn’t handle it any more, when Crowley’s fingers met his erected nipples for the upteenth time, and the angel reacted.  
Aziraphale hit the demon’s wrist, an unexpected slap.

The act broke the warm atmosphere that was cradling them. It was instinctual, but the angel retracted the hand, scared by what Crowley dared to do, by the consequences. 

**“Oh.. Angel, that’s not good… “**  
Crowley’s tone was razor sharp, harsh, and bracing.

_“I -I… I’m sorry… b-but Crowley, I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve… I don’t feel… better. Not in that sense. The people out there are not… what kind of punishment is this?”_

Aziraphale was exhasperated, his face reddened to the tip of the nose, his breathing harsh. He rearranged his shirt wrapping his belly with his arms, anxious and vexed, but on the contrary, he couldn’t form an answer.

**“This is a torment… isn’t it?“**

The devil, patiently, repeated the order of the day.

**“You cannot talk, Angel. Not now. Souls in hell cannot speak, they moan. They don’t look for an answer. And you… you are not in the position to ask questions.”**

There was a pause.

**“Now… I do not want to be hasty. Arms down…please…. ah. Indeed. you could take your pants off. I don’t think you are going to need them soon… am I wrong?”**

The angel understood, but he was different from the angels in the adorning fresco on the ceiling who were fighting, strong and ineluctable against evil, and here was Aziraphale who was submitting to capture. He was surrendering to a punishment given by a creature belonging to sin. His fingers trembled looking for the pants’ buttonholes. Little by little, he was freeing his belly, his vision became hazy, covered with a veil of tears. Humiliated. And yet no one was forcing him, he was trusting Crowley, listening to him, obeying him. But was fear made everything so stunning.. and yet somehow pleasing.  
The angel just stood there, almost naked in front of Crowley.  
The male member was visible and slightly erect. A tear fell down along the blond angel cheek, he was fighting between the visceral shame and the excitement provoked by such an intimate moment with the demon. He was pulsating… he was swelling, barely covered by the shirt’s edges ,the only cloth Crowley allowed him to keep.

**“So… handsome..”**

Crowley whispered biting his lower lip. He was staring at Aziraphale with greedy eyes indulging in every single detail. He noticed the white knuckles, the pink lips as they quiver and at eventually stopped at his organ, letting the time go to sadistically enjoy this human reaction.   
The angel couldn’t stop and the demon made him feel even more naked than he actually was.

_“Please stop..”_

Moaned Aziraphale.  
Crowley answered with a grieving sigh, the cherub had spoken. Again.

**“Why do you keep disobeying me? “**


End file.
